The Meaning of Leisure
by Armidion
Summary: Because sometimes even assassins need their fun, though not in the way most would prefer it. Now a two shot.  Altair/Maria
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed. If I did, I would have totally put a bunch of CG scenes in there, like the kind they used to make the AC: Brotherhood E3 trailer. Especially of what seems to oftentimes be referred to as 'the woohoo on the roof' (you know? In Acre? *nudge, wink*)**

**AN: I'm not sure if this has a plot. I was skimming it for one, and I couldn't find much of anything. But if you want a little but o fluff n stuff to brighten your day, then step right up! Bear in mind that while I am replaying AC 1 right now, I'm only at the beginning, and totally forget a bunch of stuff because it's been like a hojillion billion years since I first played it back when it first came out. If I screwed anything up, just let me know.**

**By the way, just in case it's confusing or anything, the big block of italics text there in the middle is a flashback. Otherwise, just enjoy!**

The wooden bench, though cool beneath her fingertips, creaked with her every movement. Birds, insistent upon their freedom of flight, flapped their wings upon above, the occasional screech drifting, muffled, towards the ground and into her ears. The dust and rocks upon the ground, though seemingly inert and impassive, ground against the bottom of her boots at even the slightest twitch, the sound and feeling assaulting her senses as if the karmic forces of the Earth had incited them against her. A bead of sweat, forming where her brow met her hairline, made its way along the side of her nose, over her lips and to her chin. She held her breath as it fell to meet her knee in what surely couldn't have been an audible splash, and released it in a quivering gasp.

In short, Maria Thorpe had never been more uncomfortable, more overwhelmingly _irritated_, in her entire life. And it was all _his _fault.

Not that she hadn't (sort of) volunteered, mind you, but when the phrase _stealth and scouting_ had washed over her eager ears, this most certainly wasn't what she had imagined. Granted, she wasn't the sort of woman given away to romantic notions of the mysticism of moving shadows and invisibility and what have you. And she had, of course, known that there was a fair amount of watching and waiting involved in gathering information, given that she had done so now and again back before the Templars wanted her head on a platter. But as the minutes continued to wear away (certainly her ass had carved a fairly impressive groove into the hunk of wood impersonating a bench at this point), she mused that there had to be some sort of statute of limitations on how much _boredom_ and _discomfort_ could be involved in what was essentially a training exercise.

_Not for accursed _Assassin_ training exercises, apparently_, Maria thought sourly, a frown pulling at the corners of her lips.

Moments later, she saw a flash of white in the crowd, and her eyes narrowed. She paused to wipe the sweat from her brow before crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling incredibly conspicuous. She shifted in her seat, her ears twitching as a particularly boisterous crowd of young boys ran by, shouting animatedly at one another, their bare feet kicking up a cloud of dust into the air. She turned to cough into her sleeve when suddenly, a hand, its grip sure, firm, closed around her forearm, yanking her unceremoniously from her seat. She yanked back, turning to shout obscenities at her attacker when she caught sight of a familiar hooded figure.

"_Altaïr_," she hissed. "What are you doing?"

His lips twitched and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing, instead turning back towards the fortress, pulling her along behind. She struggled in his grip, attracting a few stray pair of eyes from the crowd. Altaïr's grip only tightened.

"I can _walk_, you know," Maria said hotly. She began dragging her feet, figuring that, if he wasn't going to relent, then he was going to be hauling her dead weight all the way up the hill. Altaïr barely acknowledged her petulance, stiffening his arm a bit to account for the extra weight, but otherwise, he walked on, shooting acidic glares at any curious passersby. Maria snorted in frustration at his complete and utter disregard for decent behavior.

Altaïr began muttering under his breath as they neared the Assassin's fortress, its great bulk throwing shadows along the ground all around them. Though she seared in anger, the shade provided a much needed shelter from the overbearing heat of the sun – such a radical change from the light, quiet summers of her childhood home in England – and she found herself sighing in relief even as she resumed her efforts to squirm her way out of his grip.

"Altaïr," she repeated softly, calmly, though with the edge of a newly sharpened blade. Altaïr stiffened, stopped and released her arm. And Maria smirked in triumph; though the apprentices of the order of Assassins thought their Grandmaster infallible, there were two things on this Earth that could disarm him, strip him down to nothing more than an ordinary man, if not, perhaps, something a little less than even that. Malik, thoroughly amused by the strangely female-dominant relationship between Altaïr and Maria, had appropriately deemed these two weapons as _the look_ and _the tone_. Needles to say, Altaïr and had not found this humorous in the slightest.

Of course, this whole…_thing_…didn't exactly have him roaring with laughter either. In fact, when he turned to face Maria, he had apparently managed to fixate a thunderous scowl upon his face, the likes of which had gotten him banned from stomping around the stables in his fowler moods. (He had been banned respectfully...that is, if it were possible to be _respectfully_ told to 'stay the hell away from the horses until that stick's out of your ass' by an old stable hand.) Maria, in turn, simply scowled back, folding her arms over her chest and awaiting an explanation for his outrageous behavior. Patience, of course, had never been her forte, and she soon found herself opening her mouth to hurl painfully familiar insults at Altaïr for his utter stupidity, as she should have done the moment his four-fingered hand had clamped down on the rather tender flesh of her upper arm (for training with the Assassin's had turned out to be far more rigorous – and addicting – than she had first thought).

"You pretentious bastard!" she started, her appetite for blood already beginning to swell as she watched his face rework itself into that _infuriatingly_ expressionless mask of his. "How dare you jerk me around with that _stupid_ hand of yours, with that _stupid_ missing finger! You think you're so high mighty and, of course, why shouldn't you? You're a _man_ after all, a perfect, strong, intelligent, the-world-is-mine-to-shit-on _man_! Well, you can just –"

"Maria," Altaïr interrupted calmly, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, which she immediately shook off. "You're causing a scene."

"So be it," she hissed, though she still cast her gaze all around, looking askance at everyone nearby. Though, considering she now stood in bona fide Assassin territory, where even the lowliest of students carried a sword and a healthy supply of throwing knives, the most she got in return was an incline of the head or a twitch of the lips. She took a brief moment to snort in frustration before turning her fury back on Altaïr, who looked surprisingly, even if only mildly, ashamed. However, when she once more opened her mouth to continue her tirade, his eyes flickered, a flash of gold dancing over his – beautiful, if Maria had her say – irises, and he clamped a hand over her mouth. She hardly had enough time to be livid before he released her and began speaking himself.

"Tell me, Maria," he said, voice low, the rich timbre reaching down to the pit of her stomach. "What information did you gather?"

And suddenly, all the superiority that Maria had been throwing around as soon as she caught sight of his hooded visage, emptied away. Now it was her turn to look ashamed, though she averted her gaze from his piercing eyes. Their conversation from earlier in the morning, before they had left the stronghold for the lower streets of Masyaf, echoed in her mind…

"_Well, how did you gather information…before?" Altaïr asked, being careful to insert the word 'before' in place of 'when you were a Templar' as he was, as of yet, unsure as to how she viewed her tarnished past. Maria, however, seemed unperturbed as she lay upon the bed, limbs stretched out languidly upon the rumpled sheets, her head, with her hair strewed all about, nestled comfortably upon a pile of pillows. At his inquiry, she turned her eyes to peer up at him from beneath her lashes. As he buckled his belts and weapons and whatnot, he could not help but to smile at the sight and she, in turn, smiled at his rare expression._

"_Before?" she replied, tossing the question around in her head before answering hesitantly. "I don't know…I suppose Robert's messenger boys fetched it for him."_

_Immediately, Altaïr's smile disappeared and he scoffed. "I doubt it. Gathering information is far too delicate a matter for simple messenger boys to execute quickly and efficiently and, most importantly, without arousing suspicion. In fact, many novices run the streets today to learn the craft."_

_Maria chuckled. "The craft? Pick pocketing, slaying, disappearing, yes, but _listening_? You consider this a craft?"_

"_You do not?" She shook her head and he sighed, frustrated, already feeling the heat of debate pass between them, as it almost always did. He took a deep breath, though, refusing to mar the beautiful morning with what would inevitably become an all out shit-fight were he to reply too hastily, and spoke slowly. "Listening requires concentration, and concentration inherently darkens the features. To forego one means to forego the other…for most, at least."_

_Maria's face appeared puzzled, and as he finished strapping on his accoutrements, he perched himself upon the bed, gazing into her eyes as she twirled her fingers in her hair subconsciously. Glad for her puzzlement in place of her wrath, he wrapped his fingers around hers and brought them up to his lips._

"_Come with me?" Altaïr said quietly, and as his warm breath washed over her hand, a pleasant shiver rand down her spine. She could see the mischief coloring his features, and knew, despite any protests she could (and would) make, that the feeling of his skin against hers, even such as innocent touch, along with the still-vivid memories of the night previous, would have her agreeing to even the most absurd of requests. "Of course, you may stay here if you wish," he continued, laughter coating his words as he leaned over her, molding her long, pale fingers over his tanned, stubbly cheek. "Many at the sparring ring would mourn your absence, I'm sure." _

_Maria narrowed her eyes at him, though she found it difficult to muster the will to be genuinely angry as he turned his lips into the palm of her hand, pressing light kisses up towards her wrist. "I'm sure they will," she replied._

"_Will?" Altaïr released her hand, leaning further still, his face now looming directly over hers. "So you will come?"_

"_I didn't say that." Maria feigned nonchalance, reaching up to entwine her fingers in his hair, somewhat short as it was. She mused that she had, of course, been surprised, at first, to learn that the great leader of the Assassins had quite an incessantly unkempt head of hair. Though she had had difficulty reconciling this boyish feature with his usually stoic and domineering attitude, it managed to suit him, somehow or another…_

"_Maria?" Altaïr spoke expectantly, awaiting her answer as patiently as he could._

"_Where are you going?" she asked. Although, even as she began pestering him about the specifics, she rolled off the bed and began pulling on her own assassin's uniform (there were several subtle differences between hers and the rest, including the style of the belt and the color of trousers, etc. at which Altaïr had uncharacteristically rolled his eyes)._

"_To the streets of Masyaf, with the novices." Altaïr replied as if this were perfectly obvious, tilting his head to one side as she hopped on one foot, struggling to pull a boot up her leg. He watched for only a few moments longer before succumbing to pity, standing and grabbing hold of her waist from behind, steadying her so that she could yank the old leather over her calf. She turned to face him and leaned into his embrace._

"_But why?" she asked, fiddling with the sash around his waist. "Hardly a job for the Grandmaster, training the novices to perk their ears. Isn't that a job more appropriately suited to Malik?"_

_Altaïr chuckled, the sound low in his throat, vibrating under her hands. "Don't be ridiculous. Despite any pleas or threats I could issue him, he would prefer I sent him to be tortured by the enemy. Even the _word_ novice is a curse coming from his mouth."_

"_Then who…?"_

"I _certainly am not going to be training them, for I find their company only slightly more desirable than does Malik." Maria snorted quietly, knowing that he did, indeed, enjoy the company of the novices, especially of the younger children. This was, however, a carefully guarded secret. "One of the masters, al-Saffah, tends to it this very moment. No, I intend to train _you_."_

_Incredulous. "Me?" Altaïr nodded. "I have sparred and trained with the horses and browsed through my fair share of the library. I think myself more than well equipped for missions now, if you would only get off your throne long enough to authorize it…your bureau leaders refuse to aid me without it, apparently."_

_Altaïr smiled a secretive smile. "Learn this and learn it well and you may venture on any mission you wish." Maria doubted he meant this in earnest, but if she could walk around, pick up some gossip, and then wonder around Jerusalem or Damascus or somewhere _not_ at Masyaf, then she would gladly do so._

"_You have yourself a deal."_

_An hour or so later, Maria found herself standing on a ridge, peering down at the streets of Masyaf. At this distance, they appeared quiet, even tranquil._

"_So now what?" Maria asked, the boredom of the exercise already beginning to weigh heavily on her shoulders, especially since, only a short distance away from the Assassin's stronghold, she could still hear the clash of blade against blade. Music to her ears._

"_Benches," Altaïr replied._

_Maria arched a brow. "…care to elaborate?"_

"_You must learn to not only lose others in a crowd, but also to lose yourself."_

"_Right. That's much less cryptic."_

_Altaïr sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "Masyaf isn't quite what it used to be, Maria. Assassins still patrol the area, though in disguise, as we have become more clandestine as the situation has demanded it. Some lone crusaders have taken to roaming the streets, also in disguise."_

"_Yes, I know," Maria replied. "One of your master assassins – Ali, was it? – was pestering me about European nuances just the other day. Something about premature reconnaissance…"_

"_Exactly. See if you can't spot them; gather anything not already in our records. Be _sure_ not to draw any attention to yourself." At Maria's half-hearted shrug, he took her hand and squeezed her fingers tight between his own. "I'm serious, Maria. Listen and listen well. Once you have heard enough to merit a report, or if you feel suspicious eyes upon you, leave quickly."_

"_Running screaming quickly or roof hopping quickly?" Maria asked in jest. Altaïr, however, no longer seemed in the mood to joke._

"_The latter if you must, but preferably neither. Just walk away, and return to the stronghold in a roundabout manner. It would be best if the disguised crusaders thought you a visitor, even though they will not be able to see your face."_

_Maria, suddenly a little nervous about the prospect of walking unarmed (she had a small knife in her boot, though, in Maria's opinion, this didn't truly count), nodded and pulled her hood over her head and down towards her eyes. As Altaïr had suggested, she left first, with him trailing her from several meters away. It would be over an hour before she saw him again._

And see him she most certainly did, standing before her with a harsh expression, awaiting an explanation.

"Well?"

"I…didn't learn much," she answered, picking at an imagined thread upon her robe. She reached up to adjust the hood upon her head…when she realized it had fallen from her brow. _Woops_.

"Don't take me for such a fool Maria," he snapped. "First, you wonder into the center of the city, which I suppose isn't so grievous, considering you are new to the Order." Maria immediately began to defend herself, protesting his narrow-mindedness. He shushes her, though, suddenly appearing to stand several inches taller than only a few moments prior. "Then," he went on. "Upon your most _obvious_ search for a proper seat, you nearly upend an elderly woman. Drawing attention. Then you crane your neck about, glaring murderously at anyone who _dares_ glance in your direction. Drawing _attention_. Then, Maria, _then_ you let your hood fall as you fidget about, looking the most unnatural I have ever seen you. _Drawing attention_." He sighed, his anger falling away to reveal a more deep-rooted concern. "Why must you torment me?"

"Because you're an overconfident prick," she seethed. "Treating me like a cheap whore on the street…how do you do it, Altaïr?" He opened his mouth, but was silenced by another one of her looks. "No really, I would like to know how it is you manage to turn something as illustrious as the profession of Assassin into such triviality, such _boredom_."

He appeared puzzled. "Boredom?"

"Yes! Wonder over here, sit there, listen to the gab of the common folk, so on and so forth…and congratulations! Suddenly, I'm well over one hundred in years. Why can you not simply designate others to do this sort of work for you?"

As she spoke, it seemed as if Altaïr were schooling his features, though against what, she couldn't exactly say. However, she could plainly see the mischief glinting in his eyes like diamonds in the afternoon sun.

"Boredom," he repeated.

"An endless supply of it," she said slowly, still suspicious. As she studied the nearly imperceptive twitch of his lips and the quirk in his brow, the moments stretched onwards, accented by the flapping of an eagle's wings.

"We do," Altaïr said finally.

"You do what?" Maria asked, turning to follow him as he began making the remainder of the journey back to the stronghold. When he did not answer, she snorted, grabbing a handful of the bright white cloth of his sleeve so that he could not speed on ahead, his stride outdoing hers by one and one half at the very least, as he was oftentimes wont to do.

"Altaïr, you do _what_?" she pressed, venom beginning to drip from her words.

"We have informants. The masters and apprentices of the Assassins hardly ever find themselves scrounging about for information. Still though, a miserable performance on your part. You could have been recognized. You _may _have been. I'll have to speak with Malik…"

As soon as the words left his mouth, she yanked hard on his sleeve, and he was forced to face her. She reached up and yanked back his own hood, the sweat from the day's labor thus far causing his hair to stick up at even more odd angles than it usually did. She would have been amused were it not for the sudden urge to tear his face from the bones of his skull.

"You bastard!" she cried. "You prick! You…you shit-eating loggerhead!"

"I'm sorry?" he chuckled, amused by her colorful insults. He had long since grown accustomed to the copious amount of profanity that left her mouth on a daily basis. In fact, at times it served as a source of arousal…

"It is still training we all require, should the occasion call for it," he defended, though Maria was still thoroughly unconvinced. "I simply knew you would find a way to weasel out of it if I did not…embellish certain attributes of the skill."

"You mean craft," she spat bitterly.

"Of course. The craft."

"So al-Saffah truly trains the novices for scouting today?" Maria inquired, regarding Altaïr suspiciously. "Or do you embellish _this_ as well?"

"I suppose that you did not see them is a credit to his success," Altaïr replied.

"Again your skills of being non-cryptic amaze me."

"Yes, al-Saffah trains the novices in the _craft_ of the gathering of information. Though, most recruits have been wondering the rooftops under the noses of the guard long before they could even speak the words assassin, so I doubt his training entails much. It would probably be more appropriate to call it an evaluation."

As he spoke of al-Saffah, they continued their way along the path of the stronghold, making their way towards what Maria assumed was his study. She wanted to berate him some more, but with the sweat glistening off his forehead and arms (he had since removed his outer robe once they had reached more private areas of the stronghold), she found the heat on her tongue making its way down her throat and to her nether regions. In fact, as soon as they reached his study, she took him by the arm and dragged him towards the desk, pushing him against the dark, ink-stained wood. She twined the fingers of one hand with one of his own and buried the other in the hair at the nape of his neck. She brought her lips mere millimeters from his before she stopped, speaking. She could feel the muscles in his abdomen convulse as her breath warmed his chapped lips.

"I should be livid with you," she said quietly.

"I thought you were," he whispered back.

"Livid, aroused, I can hardly tell the difference sometimes."

"I never could…"

His words were swallowed by her lips as she pressed them to his. She whimpered softly as he traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue, pressing her body flush against his as he began to dominate what had begun as her assault. He wrapped his arms around her and, once freeing the clip that bound her hair atop her head, buried one hand in the luxurious locks, while the other remained plastered against the small of her back, pressing her hips into the cradle of his. Several long moments later, his lips left hers so that they could catch their breath, and Altaïr began tracing a feather-light path from her chin to the crook of her neck.

"You know this means revenge right?" Maria said, still breathless.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Altaïr replied.

And they laughed, the peaceful moment, one of only a few, seeming to brighten the light of the mid-afternoon sun just that much more.

**PS: Mistakes? Qualms? Comments? I would loooove to hear from you (not in a creepy stalker kind of way, though).**

**Armidion**


	2. Chapter 2

**I would like to thank all of the readers of this story and all of the nice reviewers by giving them some more Altaïr/Maria! Since I kind of left the story open with the last chapter, I decided to add a little more to it, even though it was intended as a one shot. There's also more Malik in here too, because he makes me lol.**

**Anyways, I'll remind you that the big block of text is happening in the past. Other than that, just enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the stuff therein. Pfft. **

Trailing his calloused fingertips over the beautifully wrought iron designs in the open air window peering down upon Al Mualim's study (_what used to be his study_, he reminded himself somberly), Altaïr mused that there was much in life to be taken for granted. In fact, it almost seemed as if these things were _begging_ to be taken as such, ever faithful and ever true, from the least to the greatest – from the steady gait of his favorite horse to the sweet, melodious sound of Maria's laughter. That is, when she deigned his ears worthy enough to hear it. In all honesty, though, standing in the study, in the seemingly impenetrable walls of the fortress, surrounded by scrolls overflowing with history and commentary (anything that any scholar could desire, in his opinion) and the omnipresent loyalty of many a trained and willing man, Altaïr thought it were best if he _did_ take them for granted now and again. What with all of the time he spent peering into the Apple, attending to his duties and _gallivanting with his woman_ – some of the apprentices' words, not his, which had no doubt found their origin on Malik's burning tongue – he would hardly be able to find the time to gush over the more comforting aspects of life. Indeed, this moment, alone in the study, was one of the first he had seen in ages.

Of course, as the silence became more and more deafening, Altaïr found himself wishing that he had taken Maria up on her offer the 'scan the landscape', as she had put it, though he couldn't fathom as to what, exactly, this entailed. Faced with piles of paperwork and other such drudgery, he could hardly manage to think of anything that sounded more exciting than that, though it was dangerously vague. Leaning back on his heels, he began to ponder his escape route, as he oftentimes did in these summer months, the fresh air and the wide open sky singing melodious verses to his blood. While honored to offer his guidance to the order of the Assassins, he couldn't help but to feel trapped now and again.

"_Trapped?" Maria has said, naught but a few days prior. Early in the morning, when the hawks and sand grouses began to pierce the quiet with their cooing and cawing, Maria would sometimes make a brief appearance in Altaïr's study, chastising him if he had neglected sleep the night before and finding occasion to do so anyway if he had not. This morning was no different, and as she poked about the scrolls and trinkets, she had apparently decided to target his 'perceived incarceration'._

"_Trapped," she repeated. "You who command a city, whose stables contain dozens of the best mares and stallions this region has to offer, whose view of the sky puts the stars over England to shame. Trapped."_

_Altaïr had merely made the comment in passing, as Maria, who had found a small map resting on one of bookshelves, began listing all of the places that she had been. Now, though, he was beginning to regret it. He paused in his writing and looked up at Maria from beneath his lashes, a careful look of boredom dulling his usually sharp features. She met his gaze for a moment or two before turning her head to watch the sky out the window behind him._

"Feel _trapped," he emphasized, turning back to his writing. She only huffed in reply, walked towards his desk, and, leaning one hip on the worn edges, crossed her arms over her chest. He acknowledged her movement only with a slight incline of his head, and she huffed once more. It was one of those moments, she thought, one where she found it difficult to love him but impossible to feel anything besides. A moment when she could see the summation of his beauty – his power, accentuated by his lithe form, his intellect, his capacity for love and for mercy – and found herself resenting that, of all the roads he could have taken, of all the possibility that lay within the end of his former Master, he himself had chosen to take the mantle upon himself. And looking where it brought him, she felt her resentment swell to even greater heights. However, for his sake and for hers, she allowed herself to indulge for only a moment before letting it all out in one long, hot breath. This seemed to grab his attention._

"_What is it?" he asked, pausing in his writing once more, though he still did not meet her gaze. Obstinately, she refused to speak until his eyes met hers, until tawny brown met icy blue. Luckily she did not have to wait long before they did. _

_And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the mood seemed to change, and the frustration that had thickened the air disappeared, replaced by a low hum of electricity. Seemingly unbidden, Maria slid from place against the desk to a new one on its surface. Slowly, Altaïr straightened in his seat as he leaned forward in reply, answering her unspoken question. He lifted a hand and placed it gingerly on her thigh even as she reached out to let the palm of her hand rest against his cheek, warm as it was in the hot, Syrian summer air_

"_You could take the day off," she said, her voice dropping in octave and volume as she lightly trailed her fingernails over the stubble darkening his jaw. She let the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly as she felt him shiver beneath her touch. Though, as his hand inched higher, she felt a chill run up her own spine._

"_Oh?" he said, his voice assuming a breathy quality. "And where would I go?"_

"_Hm," she answered lazily, noting with amusement that, somehow or another, his lips were only a handful of inches away from her own. She leaned further still as she began listing the possibilities, though she knew same were more than a day's journey away. "Damascus, Aleppo, Jerusalem…that nondescript pile of hay behind the stables…"_

"_Don't be ridiculous," he breathed. "I've spent enough of my life shrouded in hay."_

_Maria laughed and opened her mouth to reply. But her words were swallowed by his mouth as it closed over hers, his lips surprisingly cool and moist. As she angled her mouth against his, burying her fingers in his hair, she wondered if she would ever tire of this – of breathing in his scent, of taking the warmth of his body into her own as she reveled in his closeness. Even as her lungs began to ache for air, she thought that, no, she certainly wouldn't, and damn the day that she ever thought she would._

_It was many long moments before they broke apart, panting. She was pleased to see the sparkle return to light his eyes, washing them with a shimmering mirth that was surely reflected in her own. He held her gaze for a heartbeat or two before standing, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the stone on the floor._

"_Then again," he said, voice still airy in quality. "Hay is much softer than earth." _

_Maria smiled brilliantly up at him._

Altaïr found himself fighting a smirk at the memory, his hand now laying motionless on the ironwork as he stared off into the distance, further still even than the horizon. However, only a few more moments passed before light footsteps echoed hollowly within the room and he sighed at the intrusion.

"Lost in thought again, _Master_?" Malik. Of course.

Altaïr did not turn around to face the man behind him, though he shook his head in acknowledgment. "Why Malik, I do not think I have ever had the pleasure of knowing someone with quite as intriguing an ability as your own." Suffering from many hours of disuse, his voice came out low and harsh, the vibration deep in his chest tickling the back of his tongue. Compulsively, he licked his lips.

Malik approached slowly, watching with a keen eye as his Grandmaster continued his careful caress of the ironwork behind their old Master's study. Though concern was etched upon his forehead, he was sure to keep it out of his voice. "And what ability would that be?"

"To take the most innocent of words and phrases and render them profane," he answered simply, turning to face Malik as he spoke. He opened his mouth to continue but promptly clamped it shut, the tightness in his jaw and the furrow of his brow etching lines of age onto his normally youthful face as he drank in his friend's concerned expression. Though for all his cunning and intelligence and mastery of threatening scowls, Malik could not force the worry out of his gaze, especially when it concerned that ridiculous, overconfident…unfortunately _missing_ woman of his.

"What is it, Malik?" Altaïr asked after long, pregnant pause. His voice was especially deep, his tone schooled, and it sent the hair on the back of Malik's neck bristling. What's worse, he knew that Altaïr was expecting news of the Templars, of their treachery or of an attack or of the passing of yet another of their brothers – it was occurring more and more often these dark days. But, despite all of dedication to the order of the Assassins – as their leader, he certainly had it in spades – Malik supposed that, were Altaïr forced to make a choice between that woman and his order, hardly a moment would pass before he would yank her out of harm's way in lieu of any member of the order, of _all _the members of the order even. Though it would most likely be much to her chagrin. So as he tossed the words about on his tongue, he tensed his shoulders in preparation for his Master's reaction.

"It is Maria, Altaïr…" As soon as her name fell from his lips, Altaïr felt as if someone has reached out and given the room a good shake. For, though he was standing still as a statue, his footing faltered and his heart leapt up into his throat, dancing erratically from beat to beat as it blocked the pathway from his mouth to his lungs. Still, he forced himself to remain calm, to at least _consider_ that what he was thinking – _dear God, she's dead_ – couldn't possibly be the reality of it. He had seen her just his morning, her eyes glittering with a fire all her own, commanding a small smile from his lips. And so, instead of letting the unbridled tirade burning in his throat escape his lips unchecked, he let air in through his nose and out through his mouth, all the while attempting to appear patient as he waited for Malik to continue, though he seemed incredibly reluctant to do so.

"Well?" Altaïr beckoned with both voice and hand. Though he spoke barely above a whisper, Malik could very nearly hear the sharp edge to his voice, as if it were a reverse blade, a dagger longing to be a sword, a sword longing to be a spear. And damn it all if he didn't feel more than a little intimidated – to say the least.

"It was Qasim's understanding that you had allowed her the use of al-Adiba for the day," Malik began, moving to stand beside Altaïr before the window as he spoke. He folded his hands behind his back and let his eyes wander lazily over the wrought iron, glancing occasionally from the corner of his eye towards his Master, attempting to evaluate just how irate he was bound to be. Though, at the mention of al-Adiba, generally regarded as the Master's most treasured riding mare, Altaïr's lips formed a thin line, his left brow climbing to meet his hairline – confusion.

"Or," Malik said, leaning forward as he feigned interest in the grounds below. "Perhaps you cannot _allow _her to do much of anything." Malik turned, looking Altaïr full in the eye, being careful to keep the amusement off his face and out of his voice. "Not than anyone could," he added sourly.

"Malik." The warning in Altaïr's tone was plain.

"One of the stable hands – "

"Qasim," Altaïr amended. Malik sighed.

"Yes, Qasim. He felt it prudent to report that the mare came bounding towards the gate not long ago, without saddle or rider." Malik could see Altaïr's spine straighten. Though he seemed rigid to the untrained eye, his heavy stance belayed his readiness for action and Malik did not doubt that, had time danced backwards but a year or two, hardly a word or two more would reach his lips before the frenzied man would dash out of the castle thirsty for answers and, if need be, for blood.

"And Maria was not close behind, I imagine," Altaïr said, his voice dangerously low.

Malik nodded. "I sent the boy after her." At Altaïr's look of incredulity, Malik held up a hand before he could voice any protests. "He is a competent enough tracker, that I know. I did not wish to disturb you without necessity. I wished to resolve the matter before – " _before you lost your head, before you ran me through, before you tore apart the kingdom looking for a single woman_ " – the situation escalated."

"And?" Altaïr seethed, his patience running thin as the sun crept lower in the sky. Though a man could change the orientation of his stars, Malik thought, there was little he could do to exchange one for another.

"He claims the trail ends at a brook and saw fit to return before he wasted the light of day operating on hunches. And _I _saw fit to turn the matter over to you before word of mouth turned a mystery into murder."

Even as the words left his mouth, Altaïr paced to the corner of his study. As per tradition, he kept his hidden blade strapped to his wrist, but, as the Master of the order, he was not oftentimes found carrying blade or bow. During his first days as Master, he had insisting on walking about as everyone else, though Malik had insisted he at least don the traditional black robes, which he utterly rejected. In the end, it had been Maria who convinced him to at least forego his heavy weapons in the fortress, for it made it awkward to sit and left many of the neophytes feeling more than a little uneasy, expecting battle to burst from within the horizon. Sometimes many days would pass with naught but the hidden blade to keep his more restless frame of mind company.

Nevertheless, he deftly threw the belt of his sword about his waist, his hands having memorized the weight and measure of his weapons many years ago. Once donned, he reached for a wide leather strap, its tiny sheaths holstering a row of five small throwing knives. The shining metal caught the sunlight as Altaïr fitted the leather about his torso, throwing several small, quivering bits of light upon the stone of the study walls.

Meanwhile, Malik appeared amused, one corner of his lip lifting almost imperceptibly. "Expecting trouble?"

"Expecting nothing," Altaïr replied. "We expect everything."

It was something al-Mualim had said to them several times, an idiom taught to all of the apprentices studying the art of infiltration. But of course, this was long before they began climbing ranks within the Assassins, when Altaïr was a highly presumptuous young boy and Malik could hardly balance a sword in his hands. Frankly, Altaïr's memory caught Malik by surprise. But before he could muster up the gull to poke fun at just how stark the contrast was between now and then, Altaïr rushed away, his long strides carrying him easily down the steps and out the doors.

Malik followed hurriedly, grumbling, "I'll just saddle my horse then, shall I?"

* * *

_He could have been a hunter_, Malik had thought as they chased obscure scuffles along the dirt pathway. While Malik had had his fair share of training, and he was a competent Assassin, to say the least, making sense of the obscurities of living disturbances made little sense to him, as if someone were to ask him to speak backwards in the language of the men living eastwards of Khurasan. Needles to say, he would be hard pressed to say much more than 'hello' or 'where is the marketplace'. However, Altaïr made short work of the stirrings of the air, the myriad of prints, both human and animal, upon the road. As far as Malik could tell, there had been a lot of traffic on this road, evidenced by the heaps of horse dung. But his knowledge stopped there, as did his interest in the goings about of animals. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the horizon as the impatient stallion beneath him shuffled its hooves, watching for any would be assassins.

Assassins of Assassins. He took a short moment to be amused.

"The sun falls," Altaïr said quietly, his words nearly swallowed up by the evening breeze, whipping as it did the hood from his head, tangling in the gentle, yet somewhat erratic, curls of his short hair. Malik was surprised to hear the beginnings of resignation in his companion's voice and turned his head, if only slightly, to survey him from the corner of his eye. He appeared determined, but forlorn, wearing an expression which stirred something akin to sympathy within the buried depths of Malik's heart. Though, out of habit, he let his tongue wag unchecked.

"As it always does," he said. "Shall we continue the search in the morning?"

Altaïr scoffed in reply. "You know as well as I that there will be no hope in the morning."

Malik looked his Master up and down, watching as he once again spurred his horse into movement, eyeing the ground and its sparse foliage for any signs of disruption. As he looked on, Malik let his brow climb, debating whether Altaïr was still truly following the trail on the ground, or if he was giving way to the trail etched in his heart.

"There may be none now," Malik replied, at which Altaïr whipped about in his saddle, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyebrows meeting in a sharp V above his piercing eyes.

"Do you plan to help me or to badger me?" Altaïr asked, his voice rising, though only minutely, in both pitch and volume. "For up until now you have been little more than a nuisance."

The implication was clear, and _up until now_ was vague enough to send Malik's mood spiraling downwards, if it had not already done so before. He refused to be goaded though, and urged his young horse into a trot, speaking over his shoulder as he did.

"Let's away then, Master. We would not want to while away the twilight in debate."

Altaïr followed, paying less attention to the road as there were steep crags squeezing the path from either side. Precluding flight, there was nowhere else to go.

"As opposed to whiling it away in petulance?" Altaïr replied.

Malik clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You _knew_ that the language of the earth means little to me and yet you insisted I follow anyways. I can still hold my own in a fight, yet I am worth only half – _if_ that – of many of the other Assassins. _Still_, you bid me to follow. Tell me, _Master_, what would you have me do?"

"I would have your eyes sharp," Altaïr answered him loudly, his voice dancing from one rock face to the other. "I would have your mind determined. I would – "

"Altaïr!" Malik hissed. The man in question turned to berate him eye to eye but, at his outstretched arm and extended forefinger, any thought of further dispute dropped from his mind. His hand immediately came to rest on his blade and he sat straighter in his saddle, turning to scan the distant valley with his aptly named eagle vision.

"What is it?" he hissed, keeping his voice low in case of any nearby enemies. Though, even as he enquired, he spotted a fairly thick, gray plume of smoke rolling towards the sky in the distance. His eyes narrowed as he let the vision dissipate.

"An awfully dry time of year for such heady smoke," Malik remarked softly. "Some of the wood must have been soaked."

"And it appears to be too small a flame for a building of any kind," Altaïr answered in turn. "A signal?"

Malik rubbed chin, looking thoughtfully down at the smoke as it began to billow even more violently. "But of what kind? That valley contains little more than wilderness. It could be a group of vagabonds looking for gullible targets."

"I'm inclined to agree," replied Altaïr, earning a mildly surprised look from Malik. "Though I have hope."

Malik inclined his head in acknowledgement as patted the dagger sheathed at his side. "So either we cleanse this good Earth from a bit of its muck or we find your woman and you live happily until the end of your days."

Much to Malik's amusement, the corners of Altaïr's lifted, though only slightly. "Or we are met with something far more sinister."

Malik nodded and answered simply, "Notwithstanding."

The sun had just begun to kiss the horizon as they came upon the fire, having left their mounts some distance back as to approach in silence. Both men's hands were poised upon their weapons, watching the fire licking at a pile of branches and a few thicker slabs of wood as they circled it slowly, methodically. Much to their surprise, they saw no one. Malik raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Why make a signal and then leave it unattended?" he whispered.

Altaïr shrugged. "Why plant a bed of roses and leave them to dry?"

Malik frowned, his lip curling in disdain. "Just full of wisdom today aren't we?"

"Someone has to be."

To Altaïr's surprise, laughter flickered in Malik's shadowed gaze. "Touché."

Altaïr thought to chuckle to himself, though as the emptiness of the area testified, his mission was essentially a failure. And as the flames climbed higher still, he groaned.

_Dammit, Maria._

Even in the midst of the fire, the air began to grow bitter as the sun sunk behind the rock face of the valley. Malik, though most oftentimes intentionally tactless, thought to stay quiet for a moment as Altaïr gazed unblinkingly into the flames.

"Perhaps we should stoke it," Malik said quietly after a while. He looked about and spotted a telltale glitter in the distance. A lake most likely, or a wide stream. He pointed towards it as he looked over at Altaïr who, though still appearing otherworldly, was looking in Malik's general direction. "Over there."

They walked in silence towards the water, their highly trained movements creating hardly a sound even in the quiet of the evening. Malik considered whether or not he should attempt to console his companion, thinking better of it one moment and then nearly speaking the next. However, at his last attempt, he spotted a figure sitting on an old bridge and promptly unsheathed his weapon. Altaïr, as he discovered, was a hair's breadth ahead of him, crouching low in preparation. Though, as they moved closer, he startled upwards, nearly dropping his blade. For a moment, Malik thought he was going to run to her.

"Maria?" he called instead. And Malik would have pointed out how reckless it was to give away their position should the figure turn out to be someone else besides – that is, were it not for the desperation that colored Altaïr's normally schooled features.

At the sound of Altaïr's voice, the figure in question turned and dropped its hood, revealing a familiar pair of icy blue eyes.

"Altaïr," she answered. Though Malik did not know the woman very well, there was unmistakable mirth dancing in her eyes. For several long – torturously so, in Malik's opinion – moments, the man and woman, two halves of the same, two sides of one, stared at each other. And then, as if breaking out of a spell, Altaïr took four long strides, his robes billowing wildly about his waist, before he reached her, enveloping her in a crushing embrace. And Malik, perceptive as he was, knew that he might as well have fallen off the face of the Earth. He looked on several moments more, shuffling his weight from side to side, before moving to take his leave.

"I'll just…" he started. Altaïr seemed oblivious, though his woman's head rolled on his shoulder, one of her eyes opening to peer over at Malik from beneath thick lashes. "…go."

And go he did, realizing that perhaps he and his Master had been hoodwinked. And by a former Templar, no less. Malik found himself smiling as he and his stallion raced away.

Meanwhile, Altaïr showed no sign of relinquishing his grip, and though the warmth of his body did wonders to chase the chill of the night away, her ribs began to compress over her lungs.

"Let me breathe," she said laughingly. She could feel his head nodding against the side of her own, though he still took his sweet time disengaging his limbs from hers, once more drawing the boundary between where he ended and she began. Maria, free from his hold, inclined her head as to look into his eyes, expecting relief at best, anger at worst. However, she could hardly gauge his mood before his lips collided roughly with hers, the sweet taste of his lips delectably contradictory to the roughness of his touch – to the scratch of his stubble against her cheeks, the force of his tongue as it moved with her own. Moments later, though, he pulled back and she whined softly, petulantly. She thought to yank him back to her before she spotted the scowl darkening his features.

"You knew," he accused, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms. Still, though, he did not let her go. And this close, Maria noticed that anger seemed to, somewhat paradoxically, lighten the golden color of his eyes.

"Knew what?" she asked, fighting a smile.

He scoffed, his upper lip curling downwards in unbridled frustration. "That al-Adiba resents your handling, that she knows the route home, that my heart would make a new home in my throat. Take your pick."

"Then I pick the second," she answered somewhat heatedly, wriggling her way out of his arms. "It is _certainly_ not common knowledge that your damnable horse throws its riders at the drop of a hat."

Even though he admired her flares of passion, he could not help but to answer in turn. "And which hat would that be?" he seethed. "Wading rivers? Jumping cliffs?"

Her nostrils flared and she crossed her arms over her chest in indignation. "Jumping _logs_, if you must know. And I hardly think that an egregious enough offense to get me _thrown_."

Altaïr shook his head and mirrored her stance. "Egregious enough to get _anyone_ thrown. She is prized for her speed, not for her daring."

"Train your animals!" she shot back.

"Not until you train your _voracious _appetite for danger!" he retorted.

She seemed to have no reply, and for a long while, they simply looked into one another's eyes, their postures rigid and their scowls fierce. However, as the calming sounds of the nocturnal fauna and the distant crackling of a dying flame began to permeate the silence, the near toxic atmosphere dissipated. It was Altaïr who relented first, letting his arms drop to his side. The small smile that graced his lips told of his recognition of their juvenile behavior, that they had skirted dangerously near the boundaries of having an 'is too, is not' conversation. Maria answered with a barely perceivable upturn of one corner of her lips as she took a few steps to close the gap between them once more. Slowly, tantalizingly, she snaked her arms around his neck. Altaïr reacted in kind, letting his arms hang loosely around her waist. He touched his forehead to hers and breathed deeply, instantly intoxicated by the smell that could only be _hers_ mixing with the smoke and the cool air.

"Though it wasn't intentional…" Upon seeing his Altaïr's raised brow, she conceded, "Not _entirely_ intentional, consider this payback for that little stunt you pulled last week."

Altaïr snorted uncharacteristically. "You _must _be joking."

"Absolutely not." Maria feigned indignation and he sighed.

"Fine. Truce?"

Maria made a show of hemming and hawing. "For now, I suppose," she answered finally.

Altaïr nodded, once more disengaging from her arms. "Let us leave, then, before Malik thinks us both dead."

Maria trilled her lips in incredulity. "Don't peg him as much a mother hen as you, Altaïr."

Altaïr ignored her jab. "Stoke the fire, then?"

"No," she answered immediately. "Let some other suffering from paranoia happen upon it. In the meantime, I've been wandering for long enough. I want to go home."

Altaïr turned the way she said 'home' around in his head for a few precious seconds before nodding and heading towards al-Abida, who had witnessed the entire spectacle in silence. As they approached, she whinnied at the site of Maria, who gave her a pat on the neck and Altaïr found himself narrowing his eyes at her in suspicion once more.

"What?" she asked innocently. Altaïr just shrugged and made to hop on before Maria's hand stopped him. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I'm riding in front," she insisted. Altaïr just laughed as she swung herself up into the saddle.

"As you wish."

* * *

Though he would have been hard pressed to admit it, Malik hovered near Altaïr's study, awaiting his return. As the moon rose high in the sky, and many of the apprentices headed towards their chamber, whispering to one another about the Master's whereabouts, Malik still waited, finding many of the books and scrolls in disarray (even if he had to muss them up himself). For several moments he would consider abandoning his vigil but, thinking of practicality, reminded himself that he was the only man in the Order aware of Altaïr's location.

_Something could always go wrong_, Malik thought to himself.

Luckily, boredom only had the chance to nibble at his heels before he heard Altaïr approaching, given away as he was by the tenor of his voice and the distinctly feminine pitch that followed close behind. Malik made to skirt away before he could be seen, but stopped at the sound of his name. He turned to give Altaïr a nod, though, bid by the man's stance and expression, he waited for Altaïr to bid a brief farewell to Maria as she sauntered on towards their shared chambers.

Then they were alone, and Malik considered feeling apprehensive, although the expressively kind emotion flickering in Altaïr's eyes had him hesitating.

"Yes, Master?" Malik said, unable to keep the tiresomeness out of his voice – not that he gave it much effort.

Altaïr inclined his head, still looking decidedly amiable. "Malik," he said, taking a few steps forward so that they did not have to strain their ears or to disturb the sleep of the other members of the Order. "I want to thank you."

Malik's brow furrowed. "It is my duty to do as you ask, Master."

"Malik," Altaïr said, his tone dropping. He took another half step forward and placed his hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. Thinking back to their earlier argument, he added, "I would have you be my friend."

To say Malik was taken aback would be an understatement. Although, as years had passed since the man he knew know had been the man he hated then, he should not have been surprised at Altaïr's many metamorphoses. So instead of cracking wise or feigning indignation, he simply cocked his head to one side.

"I just might be," he said, and was, again, surprised at the truth of it. Altaïr nodded, turned and left without any of the pretenses or expectations of the propriety exercised from one acquaintance to another. _Just might_, he thought, turning the thought over in his head. _And maybe the woman too_. But then he thought of her boasted skill with a blade, her air of superiority, her command over the most powerful man in the Order, in the entire Eastern Abbasid Empire, even.

Malik snorted softly as he made way towards his own chamber. _Maybe not_.

And he smiled.

**A/N: If there are any mistakes, please let me know. It's like ridiculously-late o'clock where I live and I might have tripped up, especially there at the end. Also, review if you want. It would make me happy and might make Malik less annoyed with all living things, yay!**

**Oh, and for those of you who find history interesting, the Abbasid caliphate (a caliph is like a king, in some ways) ruled the Arab/Islamic Empire until the mid thirteenth century, after which the Mongols were like 'yeah, leave' (and by that I mean they totally sacked Baghdad – actually they had one of the later Abbasid caliphs rolled up in a carpet and trampled to death by horses – gross right?). Anyways, I'm taking a class on it, and there's actually stuff about that Assassins (Hashshashins) and Masyaf and I'm all like LOLOL the whole time and everyone else is like 'what's the matter with you?'**

**But enough about that. Hope you enjoyed it!**

**Armidion**


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